Ignaby
by Evedar
Summary: A   rather short one-shot about a human priest's last battle at Silvermoon. Sorry if I messed up time, this takes place in Warcraft 3. Please give me suggestions to improve, they're always appreciated.


Ignaby Clark knew he was going to die. He wasn't really worried about that anymore. His hands glowed with a blinding light again as he mended a shoulder wound on a nearby soldier. He'd never thought about it before, but now he realized that he wasn't afraid to die. There was nothing left for him anymore. His wife was dead. His son and daughter were dead. His homeland was in flames. The thought made him even less afraid to die on the battlefield. If he couldn't save his family, he'd have to make do with vengeance. He gripped his staff in both hands and swung it into the nearest ghoul. Its head snapped back from the force of the blow and it dropped to the ground. Ignaby could feel his power reserves waning. More golden light flashed from his hands to a wounded man. The footman saluted Ignaby and rushed back into the fray. The sky ahead was black with undead beasts. The land before him was littered with the corpses of elves, men and scourge. Magic coursed along the ground from the ley lines shattered by the march of the dead. He heard a man yell in the distance.

"The ranger captain has fallen!"

Ignaby didn't falter. He continued to heal the wounded, knowing now what was happening. Sylvannas was dead now, too. Another soldier fell under the onslaught even as he heard those words. His body was gripped by some invisible force and shambled to the battle. Another walking corpse. Ignaby knew what was going to happen. Silvermoon would fall. _Why?_ He wondered. _Why do so many innocents need to die for you, Arthas?_ The prince had lost his mind. His own father was only a prelude to the thousands he'd killed already. Soldiers and militia. Farmers. Carpenters. Blacksmiths. Their wives. Their children.

Ignaby's mind turned to his family. Were they somewhere in a better place, waiting for him? Were they cheering him on as he fought in vain against their killers? He smiled as he thought of his two little children waiting by the door into a small cottage by the ocean. That was all he had wanted. To live in peace with his family. He'd laid down his priest's staff and robe for a farmer's plow. Some sheep. A life that didn't involve marching across frozen tundra toward a deluded goal. A life that didn't involve freezing out in the night watching for enemies. A life that wasn't lead by a madman who would burn his own fleet and kill his own mercenaries, his own men, let his own friend die, for some magical sword. How long had it been since he'd returned from Northrend? A month? How long had Ignaby gotten his family life? Two of those same months? Had the scourge even noticed his farmstead as they swept through? They probably hadn't. He'd told them to run. He saw them disappear under the ravenous dead. Why had he abandoned them? A tear rolled down his cheek. He'd let them die. He could have bought them the time they needed if he hadn't tried to save their possessions. They wouldn't be waiting to see him again. They'd want to know why he'd told them to run for the town.

"How was I supposed to know the scourge would go for that town?" Ignaby whispered. Still, he knew the answer. He should have thought about it. He'd let his family die because he was careless. He'd die now, though.

"It'll be okay." He said to himself. "They'll understand."

Ignaby was sure that he was going to die now. The undead had broken through their front lines. Now he saw why. At the back of the army, a horseman was carving through the humans and elves. The scourge didn't field any cavalry.

Arthas.

"Light have mercy on our souls." Ignaby said. He dropped his staff beside him.

"See you soon." He whispered, as much to reassure himself that he would see his family again as to speak to them. The ghoul in front of him leapt forward, claw like hands tearing at the air. Ignaby spread his arms wide, letting it come. The claws ripped through his robe. Blood ran down his chest.

Ignaby closed his eyes, and lay down on the ground in the grass beside the road. The ghoul had abandoned him for more lively prey. He was finished. Maybe something better awaited him. Maybe his family would forgive him. Perhaps he'd see his friends from the army again who'd died in Northrend.

"Only one way to find out." He said, his voice almost gone. The sounds of battle were far away and sounded like a story being told in the next room. Ignaby regretted only one thing. He wished he'd seen Arthas die. He was still glad that he was free from the grip his fractured life had on him. Free at last.


End file.
